A sad man's reflections about the love of his life
by pagan-writter-all-da-way
Summary: Love. Four letters, just four. Those damned four letters that had haunted him most of his life. If only he hadn't been running from them, maybe if he had let them catch him, he wouldn't be feeling like this. Maybe, he would still have her.
1. chapter 1

**_Hi! Well, it's been a while since I last wrote here in fanfiction net and in English no less! This is also in Tumblr under the same title and you can fond it with the same author name. I really hope you like it. It's a bit sad but it may get better._**

 ** _Disclaimer: Nope I do not own Sherlock, not even the original Sherlock Holmes Tales and Adventures, if I did Molly would be a canon character and the last season would have ended with a Sherlolly kiss._**

 ** _Enjoy!_**

Love

Sounds weird.

L-O-V-E

Four letters. Just four.

Why is it that that word, just that simple four letters, are so fearable?

Why is it that I have feared them the most of my life?

Why does it hurts so much?

Is this what I am supposed to feel?

Is it normal to feel this empty?

Fuck's sake, why?

Is it love what's crashing me now? Or is it the knowledge that I have lost it?

She doesn't look at me anymore, there's no more warmth for me in her eyes, not one single corner of brightness there.

Her eyes weren't like that before, I'm sure.

Have I done that to her?

She doesn't want to work with me, she always sends some other pathologist who will end up storming out because I'm such a git.

I'm a git.

I remember, at the beginning I didn't care about her. I deduced her like I would deduce anyone else, I used her every time I decided it was fit to do it. I didn't even care how much I was hurting mousy little Molly. She was nothing to me.

Once I saw the trail of tears there.

That's when the guilt started.

I would imagine the quiet echo of her sobs in my head.

One time after the other, it would always get louder and louder every time I used her, every time I got her hopes up just to crush them the next second.

I could see it in her eyes, I was hurting her.

But, back then, it was just that moment, it would never bother me the second I got myself out of Barts.

But life is cruel, isn't she? Molly was always so kind to me. And she, damn her, slowly but surely started making me care about her.

Using her feelings to get what I wanted started paining me as well. It hurted to know I was the one who was breaking her.

One night, I hadn't a case to distract my mind, I was lying awake in my bed and I started thinking about her.

She always smiled, but it always was a sad smile. Her hurted eyes haunted me, replaying scene after scene, again and again.

For some reason her feelings for me never died, it didn't matter how much of a git I was to her, she still felt the same for me.

And I relised I liked it.

It felt good. It felt solid. It warmed me.

That's when I noticed that sentiment had found it's way into my mind.

I was scared, I was so very scared.

I had worked all my life to evade sentiment, but there it was. And I was such a coward that I decided not act upon it.

I tried to scare her off, I didn't want to get attached to her anymore than I already had.

It didn't work. And some part of me (the one I tried to shun, the one its voice was getting louder with every beat of my heart) was so unbelievably happy about it. It felt so good.

I wasn't the only one trying to make it work, she was trying to forget me and it felt so good that she couldn't.

She tried to date someone else, and then it started to hurt.

A burning sensation in my chest, I could see every detail, every success, everthing that went wrong, every boyfriend who was not the right for her.

Nothing was right about it, I didn't want to admit it, but I was scared that someday she would make it.

I couldn't stand it. I just couldn't. It felt wrong, so wrong, I couldn't stand that she was kissing another lips and being touched by other hands.

I knew it wasn't fair, I was never going to act upon my feelings, she deserved to forget me and move on with her life.

I knew it, but I couldn't accept it, because deep inside me I felt that she was mine.

She was mine.

One time after the other, everytime she tried to date I deduced her boyfriend and ruined it for her. I was so jealous. I still am.

I shall never forget that night, that damned Christmas night.

She had dated someone at that time and I was so jealous when I saw that damned red present.

I remember the twitch of desire that shaked me then, I remember the rage, she was succeding, she was forgetting me. I remember the coldness that enveloped me when I deduced her.

She was going to see someone else that very night and she looked so beautiful. But she wasn't dressed up for me, she had put that much effort on emphasisimg her prettyness for someone else.

She wasn't mine anymore.

I was blind with jelousness, I felt betrayed, I didn't have the right to, but I still felt it.

I felt hurted, and it was the hurt that talked when in turn I hurted her.

But in the end I hummillated her for nothing.

It was me all along and I was too stupid to notice, my judgment was clouded by jelousness and all I got in turn was the clear sight of her watering eyes fighting the urge to cry.

I couldn't stand it.

I never apologize, never since I'm a child have I apologized for anything, but that time I did it.

Then the case gave me an excuse to ran away, I was so ashamed.

But it wasn't enough, after The Woman's 'death' she was forced to do the autopsy, and then she just had to misunderstood the nature of my relation with Adler.

Because that's just my luck.

And then it came. Moriarty owed me a fall, didn't he?

I fell. Hard.

And still she was there for me, she helped me fake my own death and I went to chase down the rest of Moriarty's web.

It's funny how he never saw her. He put a gun for everyone of my loved ones but her. How could he not see? I haven't yet understood, if he was my equal in intelligence, how could he miss my feelings for her?

A bullet for everyone that mattered, but none for the one who mattered the most.

Some nights, when I was certain I needn't sleep with an open eye but would still have to sleep outside, in the cold; I would lock myself up in my mind palace and convince myself that John was there to endure this with me, to share that burden, that Molly's warm eyes were there for me, like a hot welcoming tea cup, that Mrs Hudson would be there, offering her motherly and soothing presence to me.

I would open my eyes expecting to see them. And I would immediately close them again bitterly disappointed to understand that they were never really there.

How I missed them!

There was some point there in which I just had had too much.

Molly was there, everywhere, I could not get her out of my head and I realised that if I ever came back I would act.

Because I needed her in my life again.

John was there too, I missed thinking out loud with him by my side and I missed his acid sense of humour.

I missed my life.

Sometimes I would look at the sky and just let myself imagine that she was still there, waiting for me, with her big brown warm eyes and a trembling smile just for me.

I daydreamed that if and when I came back she would throw her arms around my neck and everything would be alright again.

I kept going, I kept trying and every criminal I took down from Moriarty's web was a step closer to that fantasy.

Sometimes I just rushed my mind in order to be done for the day faster so that I could go to my temporary accommodation and daydream in peace.

Life must have so much fun with me, doesn't she?

Because when I came back, I recovered John. But when I came to Molly I had already lost her.

She hadn't waited for me, why would she?

A kiss on the cheek was my only farewell to my childish illusions.

It hurted so much.

It was almost comical, her fiancée was physically identical to me, I remember concluding that she hadn't moved on that much.

The worst part?

He was an idiot, and I didn't have the right to ruin it for her. I wanted to find something, whatever, just to stop it, but he was a good man, he loved her, he didn't have anything for me to use it against him.

Why would she choose an idiot? She had a genius at her bloody feet but she chose the idiot.

Then it hit me that she hadn't realised that I loved her, and that she hadn't realised yet that he was an idiot.

I'm ashamed to say but I was so relieved that it didn't last once she understood his lack of brains.

But then again, when I more or less had a chance again, I couldn't take it, because I had a case and it would be too dangerous for her to be involved with me romantically.

Moriarty had missed her importance, but Magnussen shan't commit the same mistake if it became that obvious.

I remember very well the contact of her hand against my cheek. She was furious when at the beggining of that case I came in contact with drugs.

When that case was over I truly believed that I was never going to see her again. I had misused the time, hadn't I?

I could have had her, but I chose not to and I was going to die without knowing the taste of her lips because I had been an idiot and banned myself from enjoying at least a bit of time with her.

I knew something was off when Moriarty "came back to life". I knew it was a fake, but I was so utterly relieved, I still had a chance. I could still win her.

Turns out that chance never came.

When Mary died to save me I almost lost John. He was angry and grieving his wife and couldn't manage a rational thought. I couldn't even see my goddaughter.

Molly was so distant too.

I surrendered, I needed the drugs, I couldn't cope with everything because my world was falling appart and nothing seemed to work to put it back on trails.

I almost died while pulling John out of his depression.

Molly was too angry at me, I couldn't even think of getting near to her without getting slapped to death.

If I hadn't been such a coward then, maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't have lost her.

Euros and the bloody I Love You coffin.

That's when I lost her.

I told her that I loved her in the worst of situations, of course she didn't believe one word.

But I did, I knew then that I loved her, I didn't just felt strongly towards her, I didn't fancy her. I loved her.

And I heard her heart tearing apart while telling me that she loved me too.

I couldn't take it, I broke her heart, I broke mine and I broke that bloody coffin because I had to take that rage on something.

And here I am.

Lost but found, hurted and trying to heal, mad but sane.

What can I do? Is there a way? Something? Whatever, I need her.

Love.

Four letters.

Two syllables.

My salvation or my damnation?

Hell or heaven?

I don't know.

Love.

Molly.

Love, I miss you.

I miss her so much. I want her eyes to look at me with that fondness she always showed me. I want her to be dreamy around me. I want her back.

Please, please, please. I don't know who I am pleading to, but still…

Don't I deserve a chance?

No, I know I don't. But I still want it.

I still love her, I know (I want to believe) she must still feel something.

Please, please, please.

Please, let her still feel something for me.


	2. A sad woman's reflections

Git.

He was the most complete and utter git.

 _Keep repeating it Molly, if you do it hard enough you will really start to hate him._

Was it necessary to have no mercy at all with her?

That day, the Doomsday as she liked to call it, was going to be her wedding day. She had wanted to pretend that that was not true. She had wanted to pretend that everything was alright and she wasn't miserable for the wedding that would never take place.

Then Sherlock called, and she, oh stupid she! Answered the call. If only she hadn't!

He forced her to say it. He made her put in words the feeling that was riddling her inside out.

She knew her feelings for him were a knife spiraling through her guts, he must have known too, for he needed to know to pull the sodding knife with guts and all out of her and then proceed to rip her heart with his bare hands.

He came the next day to explain himself but she didn't open her door, she didn't open the door to him, nor to John, nor to Mycroft and when the black limousines came to view under her window she exited the place by the backdoor.

She had wanted to strip her feelings for him from her chest, but even though she no longer had a heart to tear to pieces, it's ghost was still there, yearning and crying and not forgetting him.

So, the logical procedure was to avoid him. To keep him so out of her life she would eventually move on, as she did when he was 'dead'.

She couldn't think of thing without remembering all they had passed through, all the things he hadn't cared for when he decided it was time to brake her hand in less than three minutes.

Did it not matter that she had been the one to fake his death? She could have lost her job! But she did it for him.

There were also the little things like supplying him with body parts for his experiments or making his coffee at the lab. Those things weren't that important, but she made it possible for him not to actually die but to seem to be dead! That wasn't a common forgettable thing!

But still, he didn't care for her enough to remember she saved his life.

How could someone like him, a hero worthy of any policial/adventure novel, remember that people like her constituted to help him in his way to the end of the novel? Heroes never truly remember about those little helpers, they remember their romantic interests (as if it were they who pushed them till the end and not a combination of little but important helpers.

Heroes remembered them when they needed another favour, or in their last moments for just a second and to make the reader screech at the dramatic moment.

She had been a big saviour, but apparently Sherlock was higher than any novel hero and he didn't care about that.

She remembered the night, years ago, when DI Lestrade presented him to her. He deduced she was competent enough and they put hands to work. Then, when they were walking out of the hospital, a nurse tried to give him her phone, he deduced her badly and that was it for him,

But she had been expecting something like that to happen to Mildred for half a year. The bitch was an old school mate that had never really matured and would call her mousy or morbid Molly till her dying day. She had deserved it.

That might have been cruel, but he had entered her good side with that. Then she discovered the amazing brain that lyed underneath those black curls and before she knew it she was in love. She refretted it almost instantly, for she knew he would be difficult. But back then, difficult didn't mean gay, asexual or simply impossible.

And there she was, rushing out of the morgue, because her turn had ended and she needed to get out if she wanted to keep avoiding the bastard. She may or may not tripped over two or three patients but in her defense, she wasn't like that with her patients, mostly because they were on their way to the grave but... _Stop it Molly, you know it's a bad one._

She was climbing down the stairs when the black belstaff catches her eye. As soon as he saw her, he changed his way to try and talk to her, but she ran. She couldn't stand it.

"Molly, please!"

"Go to hell!" She answered, she didn't know from where she had taken the strength to say that. But she had never been a runner and he was used to hunting down crimminals. How could he not catch her?

Her answer came with a cold hand grabbing hers.

"Please, Molly, let me tell you, it's not–"

"I don't want to listen to it! No more Sherlock! No more!" And with that she freed her hand and walked away, he was still there, paralyzed where she had left her.

That's what he deserved, she wouldn't be his secondary/helper/saviour character. If he couldn't bother to remember to respect her the way a person who saved your life deserves then she wasn't going to save him anymore.

But while her brain decided that, the hot tears that had filled her eyes when he tried to talk to her streaked down her cheeks, her slumbered heart beated agonizingly fast and the knowledge that she had committed one of the greatest mistakes in her life suddenly was brought to life.


	3. To give hope to the hopeless

**Hi to whomever is reading this! Well, I know this is rather short, but well, I'm a student, I still have to do four business papers, one for biology and one for chemistry, and that history essay, so... Yeah, you are lucky I love this story very much. Also, the next chapter will probably be the last and it may be as short as this one. (Or maybe the muse will decide to super inspire me and I'll have no option but to write a longer chapter now that I have decided to write a short one).**

Then, she ran again, leaving him behind. This time, he didn't went after her. He stayed there, paralyzed on the sidewalk.

Did she hated him?

He was the world's only consulting detective. He had solved the most difficult cases of the era. He could tell anyone's life story in seconds almost mechanically. He could read people like an open book.

But this. This he could not.

This was what he had feared. This was the very reason why he had avoided sentiment all his life.

He had always feared having his judgement clouded by sentiment. Not being able to deduce people.

He had raised walls of ice and steel to armor his heart and keep his judgement crystal clear.

Molly hadn't been the first woman who tried to carve her way into the steel. But she had been the first to warm her way through the ice, finally managing to be the tear in his armor. She used to be such a little tear... But once broken it was only a matter of time to shatter everything to pieces.

He hadn't been ready when it shattered. He got cut all over by the piece that fell. He was hurt. He was sad.

Sherlock Holmes had always known that he would end up being an old lonely man. He hadn't actually thought that he would be quite bitter, but part of him already knew it. The thing is that it hadn't actually bothered him. Ever.

But now...

Now, the cold, glorious, reasonable palace he had protected with all his might left him feeling empty.

Now, when he tried to think of his future, he saw the old lonely man he had always known he would be. He saw a bitter old man. He saw an old sad bitter man. He saw a man with many regrets eating him alive and weighting on his back. He saw a grey shadow placating over him.

He saw himself looking at Rosie, all grown up and mature, with nostalgia aching in his chest. He could have had a beautiful smiling daughter like her. In this distant future where John Watson had already passed away, and the only person that bothered to give him some company was Rosie Watson. He saw himself wishing it was his daughter and not only his best friend's the one who spent hours chatting with him to lighten his loneliness.

He saw his grave. Cold and abandoned. With no children nor grandchildren to care for it. No one to miss him. No one to cry for him. He would leave this world as if he hadn't come at all.

And it suddenly hurted very much to know it.

He didn't want to end that way. He really didn't.

His case somewhere out there, waiting to be finished by a soul that no longer cared for doing so. Slowly he started walking again, back to Baker Street, back to his cold, logic world. Only he didn't fit in there anymore.

Now it was too cold for him. It was too deserted for him. It was too quiet. It lacked the warmth that he needed so very badly, it lacked the noise he now wanted, and nothing could replace the voices he needed to hear. It was barren.

He wanted to call John, he really should. But he found that he could not bring himself to do so. He was sick of being alone, but his fingers lost their strength every time he tried to call his friend. Why was it? He didn't know.

He didn't even call a cabbie. He walked. For a hour or so (67 minutes to be precise).

He showered, and decided that he would sleep. But his eyes refused to close.

He contemplated the roof and felt the dulling ache of boredom. He wasn't going to sleep anytime soon. So he quitted his bed and started pacing through his flat, when he saw his violin case.

Soon the instrument was in his hands and, after tuning it, his started to play. Pleased, as always, by the way his fingers pressed the strings without the necessity of thinking about it.

For the first time in a very long time, as the song took all over his senses, he felt warm inside.

Mis mind drifted off to some better place, it was not his mind palace. When he played it was never his mind palace.

This time, he was tranported to a green immense field, with clouds covering the sky and clean air to breathe.

He could feel his wounds healing, his pain fading... her eyes warm and bright, with that smile of hers, just for him.

As his fingers started increasing the speed at which they pressed the strings and the song became more powerful, he felt like coming back to life. Revitalised.

"Try again, Sherlock. Will you do that? Will you try again for me?" She said, her voice soft, sweet. Warm.

"Yes." He would try. Upon his word that he would try to tell her again. He would explain it all to her. He would do whatever it took to recover her bright brown lovely eyes.

"I promise I'll try."

"Good."


	4. Before I open the door

Tell me you love me. Please, tell me you love me.

Tell me that your heart flutters when you see me.

Tell me that you meant it.

Tell me that you love me and I swear I will surrender.

Tell me that you feel for me the very same aching cry of love that I feel for you.

And I promise, my love, that I will listen to your vain pretty words.

I will let you tell me, what I did not that fateful evening.

I will let you weight my heart, only if you let me weight yours first.

It's dark. I'm sad. I'm lost. I'm tired.

You have to come and find me.

I don't want you to leave. I don't want to walk away.

Sherlock I'm desperate. I want to run, I want to hide. I want you to feel the pain you made me feel. And despite that, I want you to find me.

I want you to run after me, even if I tell you off.

Because I'm torn between what's left of my dignity, my pride and what my heart tells me.

I want to listen to your excuses. I want to believe in your words. I want to open the door and let you in. I want cry so very badly.

But I cannot.

I'm hurt, Sherlock. Some wounds run deep. Deeper that you might care. Deeper than you might imagine.

I cannot listen to your excuses. I cannot believe not one word that falls from your lips. I cannot open my door to you. I cannot cry, I must be strong. I have cried for you more than what I care to admit. I'm no child, I'm no teenager. I am not allowed to cry anymore.

If you want my forgiveness that much, you have to come and find me, for if you don't take the initiative I will not. I won't humiliate myself anymore.

If you care so much for having my forgiveness:

Tell me that you love me and mean it.

Tell me that you love and don't you dare leave me.

If you what you want is a more competent pathologist, if what you want is to come back to how we once were, I'm afraid I will have to ask you, as politely as I am able, to go to hell and don't you dare shadow my doorstep again.


	5. Be honest!

Will she do it this time? Will she open her door to me? There's no John and no black limousines from which she would run away. It's just me.

I think I'm going to choke. I stare at her door, trying to concentrate in something else.

Old. Red oak. Painted into a cherry-looking shade of brown. Used to being slammed. Scratches over the lock. It's second hand. Little less visible scratches at the end of the door going from tiny to not-so-tiny and then again to tiny. Must be her cat. Her cat is old by now, this ones are newer but still small. She has another cat. She's lonely.

I knock. Nothing. I knock again. Nothing. I knock again.

I'm thinking that I'm going to pick the lock, can't be very challenging, when suddenly one of her eyes is staring at my me through the peephole.

It only last two seconds.

I have half a second to notice the tear that is forming there.

"Please, just let me–" _explain, tell you, I..._

"No! I don't want to hear it!"

"Molly, be reasonable!" I spat. I'm angry too, but someone has to make the peace and if she's not doing it, then I am.

"I have to be reasonable?!" She laughed histerically. "Well I'm sorry! Not all of us can be reasonable twenty four per seven. Some of us have hearts, you know?"

"Molly that's rodiculous. We all have hearts, without them no blood would be pumped into our organisms and oxygen would never reach every cell and we would die. You of all should know it..."

 _Go to hell you pompous arse!_ Molly wanted to say.

"Sherlock, just go." She sighed instead, dropping the matter tiredly.

"I can't Molly. I gave you as much time as I could. I can't anymore, please let me–"

"I don't want to hear it Sherlock! Put that in that oversized brain of yours. I don't want to listen to you anymore."

"Molly, please open the door."

 _Silence._

"Molly, please!"

 _Silence_.

"Please!"

Nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing.

"Open the door, Molly!" I hollered desperate. I felt as if she would never let me in. And that would be it. But I couldn't let it be it. I need her. I need her bright eyes and her trembling shy smiles. I need her small chat and her quiet but comforting presence in the lab. Therefore, I cannot and will not stop trying. I have to make her listen. She has to understand that I really love her. She has to.

"I won't! Please, Sherlock, just go!"

"Don't you understand that I cannot?!" My throat is dry. I would have liked to say the truth then and there, but I know better. "I'll sleep here, at your very doorstep, if I need to. But I will not go."

"Of course you can. We have been avoiding each other for three months, surely you can manage just as well for the rest of our lifes."

"Now, that's a lie, Molly." I laughed humorlessly. "You have been avoiding me. I've been trying to be patient. And don't know about you, well I actually I do if the tracks of tears on your cheeks, the dark circles under your eyes and you suddenly buying another cat is anything to go by..."

"You are not even seeing me!" Now it was her turn to spat, I guess. She mustn't have thought very much about it. She knows me. Probably she's just angry and frustrated and wanted to say something.

"I don't need to. As I was saying, let's pretend that I don't know how about you, but I haven't been doing so well. Because I miss you. Been doing it for a while. Yesterday was my deadline. I won't wait anymore, Molly.

So open the door, because this is important and when I say it, I think you'd rather I said it without a door between us."

Silence, yet again is my answer. Again, I'm thinking that I should just pick up the lock and be done with it. But then I hear her ran out of the door and I know she is going for her keys.

The door opens.

She's wearing khakis and an oversized sweater. All blue and brown.

Her eyes are wet, but she will not cry. She will not let me see her cry. This is how it works. I have hunted her, I have gone after her and now I'm here.

All I represent to her is what I have caused her, which lately is more or less pain, and facing me like this, in the place where she is most vulnerable... It's difficult. I understand. I'm having problems too.

Still, I would like it better if this logic consequence didn't troubled me.

She doesn't want me here, but she she has missed me as terribly as I have missed her.

Endings can be beautiful, or not. She is not used to good endings. She believed that whatever you would call our... Relationship? Friendship? Doesn't matter. Our uhm –interactions? _Still bad, doesn't works–_ had reached its end.

She hadn't wanted it to end, but she had to. Or felt she had to. Now she's angry, and sad, and some little part of her is hopeful.

I step inside. She closes the door behind me. There's a wall that hides the rest of the apartment from the view in front of me. The floor is cherry wood. It actually shines. I can smell the floor wax. She's been cleaning. She doesn't like cleaning very much, therefore she doing it to avoid doing something else that bothers her even more.

"Well?" She rushes me. She's anxious.

"I love you." I blurt out. Way too soon. I blame her. It's her fault for looking into my eyes so firmly and dismantling whatever more diplomatic thing I was about to think of in order to tell her gradually that even though the whole call was against my will, I did not lie when she made me say it.

CLAP!

Her hand collides against my cheek. It burns. I can't move, I'm paralysed.

"How dare you?! Sherlock, how dare you?!" She's on the edge of crying but she will not. I know she will not. She will hold back until I'm far away, then she will let her shield down again.

"Whatever else can you expect me to say?"

"Nothing! I don't want you to tell me anything! I let you in only because you insisted on it so much! But I already regret it! At least be honest, Sherlock. Whatever is it that you want. Don't you think it's enough? Haven't it been enough for you?"

"I'm being honest, Molly. I love you. There's nothing more to it than that. I don't want anything else."

"Your not!" She cries in disbelief, why would she believe me? "And I want you out! Get out!" She's punching my chest, it's a sad kind of punch, as if she didn't have the strength to throw it. She's hysterical and I have to calm her.

She could really cry. I can't let her cry. She will not tolerate crying in front of me anymore. It will truly brake her self esteem. She will pity herself. She will call herself a defenceless useless child. I can't let her cry.

"I will not."

"Get out!" She tries to push me, but she can't. I grab her shoulders in an attempt to calm her.

I look straight into her eyes and suddenly I'm about to forget what I'm trying to tell her. I don't know anymore. Her eyes have the most beautiful shade of brown. It's almost golden. They are bright from the tears that she's holding back. She's so close.

 _Think! Think, you bloody idiot._

"Molly, look at me." She fights me a little more, but soon she's not moving anymore. She will listen.

"I was forced to do that call. Alright? I didn't want to make you cry, I didn't want to break your heart. I didn't–I–... look, that whole afternoon, scratch it, that whole day: was hell. Did you know I have a sister? Because I didn't. Apparently I had deleted her from my brain because she did... horrible things." I don't want to tell her that Euros killed Victor. I really don't. "She killed my childhood best friend, burned the house... and she was sent away and she ended in this maximum security facility. She took control of it and she started going out. And trying to solve the puzzle we, John, Mycroft and I, ended up there, in Sherrinford, the facility. She decided to play with us. She made us believe she had control of a plane and there was only a little girl awake there and for every puzzle we solved we would get to help the girl. It was sickening, Molly. Sickening." I have to pause, everything is still too fresh. I can't... I just can't. My hands melt away from her shoulders and Incant look at her no more. "A man killed himself infron of me, because she wanted me to pick either John or Mycroft to kill him or she would killl this man's wife, I couldn't do it. So he illled himself and she killed his wife because I didn't do it her way."

"That's...That's horrible! Sherlock I'm so sorry!" She chokes on the words, but she can't help but say it. It wouldn't have been her if she hadn't said so.

"Then, she gave us three suspects. I had to pick the true criminal out of them. I did it, I wasn't even sure if he was but I was running out of time. She killed the three suspects, because it made no difference to her. Then, came a coffin with the words "I LOVE YOU" written on it. It was cheap. For a lonely and small woman. It was for you." Molly gasped and I turned to her again. "I had to make you say that same word in three minutes or your flat would explode. She had got there five persons killed that very day, who know how many more in her life, I wasn't about to doubt that she had planted explosives in your flat. I couldn't imagine a world with you dead Molly, I couldn't allow it to happen. So I did what she told me. And then she said that she had tricked me into doing it. There was nothing, but my fear. If I hadn't been so scared I would have reasoned better and I would have known that she was lying to me. But I couldn't. I couldn't reason in that moment. And I'm sorry I had to put you through it. I really am sorry about it. But there is something strange about saying something aloud. There's a difference when only you know something, when no one but you can say it. And when that something scares you, it's easier to deny it. But once said outloud, its real. It's tangible. It becomes true."

Silence appeared again. I didn't want to tell her the rest of the story, it was too overwhelming. I felt as if I had to. But I couldn't bring myself to open my mouth anymore. Her eyes bore into mine and she takes a step closer. So close I can feel her breath on my face.

"I–I... I believe you."

"You do?" She doesn't answer, instead she nods and looks into my eyes once again. She can see it for herself.

I could cry. Maybe I am crying. I don't know, I don't care. She believes me. She believes me! I don't remember giving my arms the order of pulling her closer, but that's they do.

She's crying. But it's okay now. She is warm. She is so very warm. I lift her head from her jaw, as delicately as I am capable of and slowly, very slowly, my lips fall onto hers. It starts like a chaste press of lips but when her arms rush to encircle my neck I find myself biting her bottom lip. It grows slowly, peacefully, gradually, until I cannot believe this storm of everything; her scent, her lips, her warmth, her her hands pressing in the back my head, my leg between hers, he lack of the breath and the rush of hearts; started so chastely.

Finally our lips part. I'm trying to stead my breath, my arms tangled around her waist holding her to me, to probe myself that she is here, her lost air wandering somewhere over my chest. I don't believe I have ever felt this in peace. As if everything is suddenly right in the world. A wave of electrolysing euphoria hits me with all its might. I notice that my head is buried on her neck and I rise it, as if she had been told to do so too she rises her head too and I'm lost in a sweet sea of chcolated honey.

Whatever she was searching in my eyes, she must have found it for she goes back to her position, with her cheek against my chest and my arms all around her. I go back to mine too. I don't feel like moving, or talking. No words are needed now. I just want to stay like this for a while.

A long one.


End file.
